


i am the resurrection

by venetianAnarchist



Series: batjokes [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: ??? - Freeform, Batjokes, Character Study, Drabble, Dry Humping, Internal Conflict, Kinda?, M/M, as always, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-10
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-30 08:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11460192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venetianAnarchist/pseuds/venetianAnarchist
Summary: Joker's head in Bruce’s lap, Bruce reclining against the arm of the couch. It could almost be domestic, but he doesn’t have the energy to fool himself.





	i am the resurrection

**Author's Note:**

> We're trying some Nolan Joker, because it's dangerous to not let off a little Ledger-loving steam every now and again. Title comes from the song of the same name by The Stone Roses, which I more than recommend in relation to these two! I'll be throwing some (likely very self-indulgent) one-off fics at you guys for this series, because I feel like it, and the fandom deserves more material. 
> 
> Find me on Twitter @callmerubyn, shout at me or share headcanons, I don't mind.  
> Also accepting prompts, should you want something done. <3

 

Joker smells of gunpowder and wax, heady and sharp and so _distinctive_. 

Bruce should be leaving, but he can't pull his mind from the lipstick and fire, the way those eyes move - deeply _in_ human - the way his fingers twitch and still at meaningless intervals - _disarmingly_ human.

He’s a baffling contradiction within another, more pronounced contradiction. He’s a colourful clown that kills people for entertainment. He’s also a human without humanity.

Or maybe he’s just buried it, deep down somewhere. Maybe that’s wishful thinking, Bruce reckons.

Gotham is quiet. It’s past the witching hour. She sleeps, grey city against grey sky, and Bruce watches the last of the night with a hollow heart.

He moves, slowly at first, then pushes himself on with the promise of rest and warmth.

On the ground below, six stories down, The Joker watches.

Bruce does not acknowledge him, because it isn’t time. He slips down the fire escape, dropping the last few feet, letting his cape settle behind him like a pair of folded wings.

The Tumbler is parked a few streets down. He walks slow enough that Joker is closing the distance by the time he reaches it.

“Throwing the towel in a little early, eh?”

Bruce unlocks the door, keeps his fingers curled around the handle. He’s tense, but it’s familiar. He doesn’t like this part.

“You look tired.”

Joker does. His lower lip is torn and bloody; it looks like it could do with a stitch or two. Judging by the scars, Bruce thinks, Joker doesn’t _do_ stitches. His body language is tentative, but it speaks to the aching joints in Batman’s knees, his back. There’s understanding there.

“I’m not ready to go home,” a pink tongue runs through the drying blood, catching red beads and reopening the fresh cut. Bruce wants to put some antiseptic on it. “I wanna play some more, Bat-boy. You’re not gonna leave little ol’ me all on my lonesome, right?”

Bruce hesitates.

“You know that it’d probably be bad, for uh, someone… Someone on their morning jog or whatever,” that nasally voice drawls, dragging out the final syllable longer than necessary. Bruce thinks it’s a very vague and unimaginative threat.

He doesn’t vocalise this. Instead, he stalks closer to the clown, and he takes him by the collar. Joker relaxes into his hold the second he’s lifted from the ground, limp and complacent. Bruce likes him like this.

They go to the Tumbler. Bruce won’t acknowledge that this is wrong, because maybe it’s not. And Joker doesn’t say a word, just watches through narrowed green eyes. They’re both grateful for the break; the silence.

Within the minute, they’re outside a warehouse just out of the Narrows. Bruce shuts the door and drags Joker with him, ignoring when the other stumbles through the muddied and melting snow.

It’s abandoned inside, mostly. Joker removes his shoes, and limps to the faded leather couch pushed against one wall. Everything is dusty and dormant, but the couch looks as though it’s had a few lifetimes of wear and tear.

Bruce knows that it has.

Joker’s eyes are half-lidded and weary when Bruce comes to sit beside him. It strikes him, not for the first time in the last half hour, that he’s more of a man than a monster. Maybe that’s why his chest aches when Joker nestles against him, making a soft groaning sound in the back of his throat. It sounds raw and unfiltered, and Bruce wonders if anyone else ever gets to hear him like this.

Maybe that’s why he forgets to breathe when we’re they’re making eye contact again, long and steady.

Because if this is a man, then it’s a man capable of atrocities that defy the very nature of humanity. And Bruce? Bruce wants to have him, regardless. It hurts too much to reflect upon.

Shaggy, faded green falls across the black of his suit, and Bruce resists the urge to run his hands through those messy curls. That’s a boundary he won’t cross without prior provocation.

He may be a participant in whatever this is, but there’s a difference between that and actively, willingly giving the attention that this man clearly seeks from him.

“I can hear the gears goin’ round and round in that brain a’ yours… Like…” There’s a long pause, and Joker snaps his fingers together, trying to find the words.

“Like gears?” Bruce supplies, unhelpfully.

Joker squirms, and Bruce lifts his arms out of the way while the clown resettles. His head in Bruce’s lap, Bruce reclining against the arm of the couch. It could almost be domestic, but he doesn’t have the energy to fool himself.

“Wow, ya' sure are shit at metaphors,”

The corners of Bruce’s lips turn up in a lazy smile. He watches as Joker bites at a lock of his own hair, gaze heavy and unfocused. How can he feel so safe when he’s alone with this man?

“Wanna cuddle, B-man?”

“Shut up, please,” Bruce responds, but there’s a sickeningly sweet feeling pushing at his insides and Joker is looking at him like he’s suddenly the most delicious thing he’s ever laid eyes upon.

He slides up Bruce’s torso, settles so he’s straddling his lap in a very half-assed sort of way. Bruce gazes up at him unflinchingly, and then shifts them back, so he’s laying down, and Joker’s pulled along with him.

There’s never any obvious build up to when it happens, and Bruce thinks it’s because they’re always unbelievably tired and sore from a long night. Maybe, because they know each other too well to hold off after the dam has broken. Joker rolls his hips, slow and dirty with that usual lazy undercurrent, and Bruce runs his hands along his sides and lets them settle at his waist.

He can't feel a lot through the codpiece on his suit, but he doesn't need. It's the very essence of the other man that really does it for him.

Joker’s slim, but he’s wiry. There’s a solidness to him that always gives Bruce pause, makes him reflect on his actions. Because this is tangible and undeniably real, it isn’t the intense dreams or guilty day-time fantasies.

No, it’s Joker, mass-murderer, bank-robber, psychopathic nightmare fuel, and he’s grinding his clothed erection against Bruce – against Batman – and he’s moaning under his breath, whispering things, and Bruce is holding onto his ass now, earning a hitch in heavy breath -

Joker’s coming, going tense. He shudders, a full-body, bone-wracking shudder, and bucks into Bruce’s lap. He doesn’t vocalise his pleasure, never does when it gets to the tipping point, he just clings to Bruce, fingers like claws digging into his shoulders, and rides it out.

He comes down again, after a minute or two, and then he’s pliant and gentle in his sated state.

Bruce holds him, ignores the fact that he’s aching – his back, his cock, his heart – and traces patterns into the green, sweat-soaked undershirt that his nemesis has yet to shed.

It’s the worst thing Bruce has ever allowed himself to enjoy.

And yet, for the longest time, it’s happened almost nightly.

**Author's Note:**

> Stay tuned for more in this series, when I feel like it. ;^))


End file.
